


Cross-Wired

by Himboskywalker



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin's arm, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Overstimulation, Prosthesis, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25397599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himboskywalker/pseuds/Himboskywalker
Summary: In the midst of battle Anakin's prosthesis takes damage and with no backup arm,it's a problem that needs immediate fixing.But crushed durasteel and fritzed wires equals all sorts of curious nerve responses while his master tries to disconnect the neural receptors.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 38
Kudos: 879





	Cross-Wired

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely to blame on the Discord server.You know who you are.

“Son of a schutta—force OW!”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said with measured patience, “quit squirming and let me pop it back into place.”

Anakin gritted his teeth and braced himself for the sharp stab of pain of Obi-Wan setting his shoulder back into place. His neck and chest and shoulders throbbed with every rhythmic thump of his pulse and intake of breath and already the skin looked smeared with Jungan berry juice for how mottled and purple it shone in the dim light.

The only thing which had kept the tanker from ripping his arm off his body was the durasteel armor across his chest and the titanium of his arm it grabbed onto when it shook him like a doll and chucked him into the mud on the battlefield. It was Obi-Wan who pulled him from the black, squelching mud and helped him stumble to his private tent behind the line of the trench, and it was Obi-Wan who took a hammer and beat his dented chest plate back out so he could pull it off of him.

“Alright,” he said from behind clenched teeth, “just do it.”

Obi-Wan braced one palm against his shoulder blade and the other on his rotary cuff and slammed his shoulder back into socket with a sickening pop. Anakin groaned and slumped against him as his stomach turned for a lurching moment before everything settled into a steady and dull throb.

Obi-Wan squatted by him where he sat on his cot and inspected the dented in line of his mechno arm, which wore gouges of slivered metal curled up like rolled frozen cream. “You’re going to have to walk me through how to detach this, I think we might have trouble where the durasteel is dented though. I’m not sure how I am going to reach the inner mechanisms.”

The arm hung limp on his braced knee and though the gold electrostatic sensors did not transmit pain signals to his brain, the mechno limb buzzed as if fallen asleep, pinpricking and icy like the mangled wires were cut off circulation.

“I’m sure it’s jammed,” he agreed. “The sensors are fritzing, feels like the circuity and the power conduit is jumpy. I can’t—I’ll need you to rework the wires for me.”

Obi-Wan’s face slanted determined, brow furrowing with concentration as he ducked beneath the cot to retrieve Anakin’s emergency tool kit for times just as these.

“Alright,” he said, steady and gentle, “walk me through.”

“You might have to beat out the armor plate to get it off, it’s—” he hissed as Obi-Wan moved his arm to brace his hand underneath it, “the durasteel is pressing into the servos and wiring.”

Obi-Wan worked in silence for a moment, tilting the arm so that he could angle the matt-black armored plates into the glowlamp light hanging above them from the tent’s ceiling. He brushed calloused fingertips down the dented in span of metal and Anakin shivered, goosebumps breaking out on his flesh arm as his already staticky nerve relays went even fuzzier in his mind. It felt oddly like being tickled. The synthennet neural interface must have been more fritzed than he thought for it to send such a scuttling and shivery feeling through him from the simple drag of fingertips down the spidery length of his inner forearm.

“Does it hurt?” Obi-Wan asked after Anakin hissed as he pried at the dented armor plate, fingers slipping uselessly against the strength of his workmanship, even when mangled.

“It’s not quite—” he broke off on another hiss as Obi-Wan dug a screwdriver underneath the plate and forcefully pressed the dent back out. “It’s not quite pain—it’s almost, is sort of tickles.”

Obi-Wan huffed a small chuckle and worked to unscrew the now undented plate. “A strange day when having your limb already severed off turns towards your advantage. I imagine without the prosthesis your arm would have been torn off.”

He grimaced and flexed the glinting gold joints of his fingers against the increasing strength of the buzzing of the arm’s nerves from the feel of Obi-Wan prying at it. “I’m sure it being ripped off would be a lot worse than a lightsaber, if I didn’t bleed to death first.”

Obi-Wan frowned to himself and wiggled the plate as he worked on the second screw, the metal creaking where it was still warped and misaligned from the tanker’s impact, the edges of the durasteel grating against the alloy ligaments and the electrodrivers for the servos pistons underneath it. They both grimaced at the sound and then made audible noises of disgust when Obi-Wan finally lifted the plate and it gave a harsh metallic screech.

“I’m going to have you disconnect the neural interface first, so my nerves don’t rattle my teeth out of my head while you work on it.”

Of all the backwater, miserable places for him to not have a backup prosthesis. After so many mishaps through the war, bringing an entire spare arm had become the par for course. Instead of being forced to repair a bum arm in the middle of a battle or engagement, he swapped one out for the other. But after back to back sieges, from one far flung Outer Rim planet to the other, there wasn’t time to return to Coruscant, or any actual hub of civilization to gather the parts for a proper prosthesis.

But Merikon, with its mud and rain and trenches, with its endless besiege of battle droids—and over what? It certainly felt like a useless clod of dirt to waste so many soaked and miserable days nearly dying on. And now his stupid kriffing arm lay busted and warped in his master’ hands, thrumming like a live wire and with no replacement.

Obi-Wan peered at the open guts of his arm, a mess of knotted wires around the servos and pistons and wound around the power cell and gold supports. “And which one connects the neural interface?”

“Disconnect the deep green one first and then the red and blue at the same time.”

He felt the gentle tug of pressure and the cold prickle of the fritzed nerve endings as Obi-Wan worked to disconnect the wires. Then a bright spark lit between the workings of the arm with a jolting zap and the smell of singed wires.

“Mhhfff—shit Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan clapped a hand over his mouth and made a tight noise. “I am so sorry—I—I’m not quite sure what I did wrong here.”

Anakin throttled down a groan as his entire arm went hot and shocky feeling, as if every atom of the gold sensors rushed far too much feeling through his nerves and flooded his brain with too much input. He felt like an overloaded droid with smoke spilling out his ears.

“I think—ahh—I think you fritzed out the third neural sensor wire, probably accidently caught the conduit from the second one. It’s—the neural interface is just relaying sensory data at about a thousand right now,” he said tightly.

“Does it hurt? What do I do?”

“You’re going to have to disconnect the blue wire from the opposite end, near the power cell where it links with the electrostatic impulses from the fingers,” he said from behind grinding teeth.

Obi-Wan blinked up at him from where he crouched by his leg and still held the underside of the arm, a lock of copper hair falling into his eyes where he peered up through his lashes. “Is this the quickest way or the least painful way?”

“It’s not—painful necessarily—just uncomfortable.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan said under his breath, and dipped two fingers in-between the wires, with all the determined finesse and precision of a surgeon. It didn’t keep the fingers from wriggling between the wires and causing a lance of pure _pleasure_ from crackling down his spine like a bolt of electricity. He physically jolted and made a high, startled noise.

Obi-Wan immediately wrenched his fingers out from the wires and grabbed his arm. “It is hurting you, Anakin there has to be another way to turn off the nerve relayers.” But Obi-Wan’s hands caressing the matt-black panels of durasteel and dragging against the gold of his knuckles only made him shudder against the jolts of overstimulation.

“It’s—you just need to disconnect the wire, master.”

“And there isn’t another way to do it? Because it’s _hurting_ you, Anakin.”

“It’s necessary, if you won’t do it I will.”

Obi-Wan gave him a flat look and leveled himself onto the cot next to him, careful as to not jostle his arm. “No need for anything so drastic, padawan of mine,” he said as he dipped two fingers back into the folds of wires.

“Not your padawan,” he said breathlessly as he clenched flesh fingers into his cot.

Obi-Wan spared him an amused expression before he turned his full attention back to the delicacy of threading his fingers through the singed wires and latticework of gold pistons and servos. It took every ounce of control he ever possessed to keep his breath relatively even and his hips anchored to the cot when he wanted to do nothing more than rock and pant against the electric and hot stinging jolts of _too much_ raking down his spine and lighting his brain heated and galvanic.

The sensors were certainly overheated and sending little shocks of electric static through his nerves with every featherlight touch. It felt like torture and rapture all in one. As Obi-Wan dipped his fingers deeper between the wires, like parting a tangled shiver of flesh; the soft pads of his fingertips brushed down the length of the gold, core servos and he brought his flesh fist up to his mouth and bit against his knuckles to stifle the wounded noise breaking from his throat.

Obi-Wan paused and glanced up at him, his mouth twisted unhappily even as his fingers froze where they plunged, buried obscenely between wires and durasteel.

“Master, please you can’t just freeze up—just,” his voice broke,”—just get on with it.”

Obi-Wan visibly cringed as he crooked fingers to lift the disconnected green and red wires out of the tangled mess to move them out of the way. Anakin couldn’t keep from jerking as he shuddered against the volt of pure heat charging through him.

“ _Mmff_ —” he muffled against his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan muttered as he crooked fingers underneath the blue neural sensor wire and tugged it to disconnect its end from the transmitter from the power cell. But the wires had obviously melted, the plastisteel outer coating fused against the connection ports of the power cell. All the gentle tug accomplished was making his cock jump between his legs and plump up embarrassingly. He cringed and squirmed all in one, mortified at his body’s reaction to the electric jolts zinging pure ecstasy through the fibrous workings of his nerves.

Cold sweat broke out against his hairline and he shivered and pressed his teeth against the fatty curve of his palm as Obi-Wan gave the neural sensor wire another firm tug.

“It—” his voice wavered as he blinked against the swimming heat in his eyes, “it’s fused. You’ll have to see if you can peel the melted plastisteel away from the port and wriggle it out.”

“Can I not just cut the wire?”

“Sure,” he said dryly, “and more than likely short circuit the power cell so I have a dead arm.” The sarcasm and bite of his tone helped to distract from the way he was beginning to throb between his legs at every pull and tug of Obi-Wan’s fingers inside the wires of his gutted prosthesis. The subtle thickening of himself from the jolts of pleasure was beginning to verge dangerously into a very noticeable and mortifying erection.

Obi-Wan hunched so that he leaned closer as he investigated the fused plastisteel and Anakin closed his eyes and forced himself to take shallow breaths as he fought to wrangle himself under control, even as he tamped down the urge to rock his hips against the hot jolts surging down his spine at every caress and tug of Obi-Wan’s fingers between the wires of his forearm.

“You’re leaking.”

His eyes flew open in horror though he realized as he glanced down, face going pale as if a bucket of ice were dumped over his head, that Obi-Wan was peering into the wires of his arm, which were smearing with viscous and amber tinted oil.

“Mhhh—” he managed, “probably cracked the baffle filter. Kriff—there’s going to be lubrication everywhere.”

Obi-Wan curled fingers through the greased pistons and his skin slipped against the wire port as he tried prying it from its melted hold. The added complication of leaking oil lubricant only resulted in Obi-Wan’s fingers sliding around between the mechanisms with far less finesse than before, the hard line of his knuckles knocking against his servos, sending aching want and the electric heat of overstimulation shivering along his senses. 

“You are very closed off in the force,” Obi-Wan remarked absently as he scrabbled in vein at the thoroughly slicked wires, failing to get a hold on the fused plastisteel port. He felt that even Master Yoda would have remarked on his self-control if the Grand Master knew the situation he found himself in.

He forced out tightly, “don’t want to distract you while you’re playing medic.”

Obi-Wan flicked him a brief, amused look before sighing and yanking with particular force at the blue neural sensor wire. Both of his legs jolted, and his cock jumped as the subtle feel of precome dampened the seam of his pants where he ached against the press of fabric. The fluttery and tender feel of apology brushed against his firmly locked mental shield.

He shuddered—caught between the singed throb of his master’s fingers in his arm and the warmth of his familiar mind pressed against his. And his mind did feel warm and tender, as well worn, and comfortable as the feel of his lightsaber hilt or his leather boots. Their force signatures, after so many years with a shared bond, fit together like metal grooves. The working grind from years of pressure and stress, from the constant and unceasing movement of their cogs turning together, made the durasteel of their souls worn so that they perfectly fit the other’s.

Years of battles just like this one, fought shoulder to shoulder and souls entwined, made the heat of his master’s mind feel like a balm beyond familiar and comforting. But it didn’t quite comfort now, rather it made more liquid heat trickle down his spine to settle with the jolting ache in the rest of him.

And then, with his fingers squelching and slipping between Anakin’s soaked wires, Obi-Wan went still and blinked up at him from where he leaned over his prosthesis.

“You’re hard,” he said, blank and even.

Anakin swallowed around how his mouth felt dryer than Tattooine and forced himself not to make the panicked and animal noise crawling up his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he strangled out, “it’s the nerve relayers.”

Obi-Wan stayed frozen, fingers buried amongst wires and pressed up against his servos. It might as well have been his hand squeezing the hard line of his cock through his pants. 

“I apologize,” Obi-Wan said, even and measured. “I didn’t realize that’s what you meant. What do you want me to do?”

“Just disconnect the fucking wire, master,” he gritted out.

Obi-Wan dug the edge of his fingernails against the fused and melted port of the wire and yanked so hard he nearly fell off his cot from the force of it. His cock jolted and leaked a stream of precome so heavy against the already dampened press of his pants that a dark, wet spot bloomed in his lap. He flushed, horrified, and closed his eyes to try and block the mortification rattling his insides from manifesting in even more embarrassing tears.

He could feel Obi-Wan hesitating through the force, though his fingers, maddeningly, stayed between his thrumming and leaking circuits. “I am going to try and work the port back and forth,” Obi-Wan said, “is that alright?”

“Alright,” he managed to strain out. He wanted to say no, it’s not alright, if I feel your fingers grinding against my servos I might spill in my pants. But he kept his mouth shut and tried to ignore the feel of himself leaking into his underwear and wetting the front of his pants.

And then Obi-Wan rocked his fingers against the port, where melted plastisteel fused with his power cell, and pulled and tugged at his wire. Back and forth—back and forth, like the slow grind of hips, or the press of his cock into a far more intimate place. He trembled against the feel of it—against the rolling press and tug of his master slipping between the leaking lubricant and fingering between the mechanisms.

Some horrid and pathetic wine escaped him, and he jerked, tilting his hips into the pleasure coiling deep in his gut.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and seemed to think something over before he offered the gentle caress of the force and peered at him with that infuriatingly understanding expression he always gave Anakin when he was trying especially to be patient and kind. It frustrated him that it was an expression he knew so well, that Obi-Wan often exerted such obvious and determined patience with him. It made him still feel like a youngling or a padawan, that he was some toddling and loud thing tugging at his robes and requiring support and measured patience as an answer.

He wanted all of Obi-Wan’s emotions in response to his own—his anger—his frustration—his passion and fury and the scorching singe of his mind in the force when whipped into a temper beneath his restraint and self-control. He wanted his disgust or interest or whatever he had to give him. But instead—he ever earned his patience—his steadfast affection—his platonic and familial love.

He didn’t want Ob-Wan’s tempered affection, he wanted to feel the core of him like brand against the inner valves of his heart, where the muscle pumped blood and life. He wanted to feel his passions like the hurt of a lightsaber burn, like the agony of cauterized flesh. He wanted anything but his master’s gentle understanding when he stroked the inner mechanisms of his fritzed-out arm and watched the stain of precome bleed across his pants.

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said carefully, “it would be easier if you came. Would that help, Anakin?”

He blinked in the dim light of the tent and thought that perhaps he might have been knocked in the head on the battlefield too. He spluttered, “what?”

“You’re crawling out of your skin with discomfort and I still have to disconnect this wire. If letting yourself orgasm will make this easier then don’t be embarrassed. Surely after all these years you do not still think me a squeamish old man?” He finished with a lighthearted lilt.

His stomach flipped, cheeks singed with turned over and nauseating mortification. “Master I—” He hated that squeamish was the word Obi-Wan used, that his first thought was squeamishness at Anakin aching and leaking with want. It didn’t matter that he was padawan no longer, that he was a man in every right. “ _Please_ just get on with it before I die of humiliation.”

Obi-Wan curled a little smile at that, that devilish look he sometimes got sparking in his eyes as he tilted his wrist to outright flick his fingers under his slicked neural transmitter wire.

Anakin dug flesh fingers against the cot and gasped out a scandalized, _“master!”_

But Obi-Wan ignored his strangled sound and threaded fingers through the wires and squeezed them in his fist. The sound of leaking oil squelching in his hand only heightened the humiliation of the way his hips lifted to grind against empty air at the feel of pressure and jolting pleasure spiking through his core.

“Master, what are you—?”

“Making this easier on the both of us,” he answered pragmatically as he continued to fondle and kneed wires between his fingertips.

Anakin squirmed his hips around in a grinding figure eight and panted, digging his heels into the dirt as his toes curled inside his boots. “Master, I—” his voice wavered, “ _please_.” He didn’t know what he was asking for, relief—for him to stop fucking fondling his wires and making electrical heat scuttle through his veins—for something in his cool façade to finally break?

He hated always being so desperate—so close to shattering apart while Obi-Wan wore his self-control like a second skin. He had sought, endlessly for years, to see what could make the unflappable Obi-Wan Kenobi finally snap. The answer was always the same—nothing.

“I personally think we should just cut the wire, Anakin.”

“I don’t want a dead arm,” he moaned.

Obi-Wan raked his fingernails down the length of his servos and Anakin grabbed his master’s arm with his own flesh hand. Amber oil smeared nearly to Obi-Wan’s elbow and Anakin’s fingers slid against his skin as he clenched around the delicate curve of his pale wrist.

“Don’t—” he warned.

Obi-Wan flexed his hand under Anakin’s hold and he felt the shifting of tendon beneath his fingertips and the grease of the leaking oil smeared between them.

Obi-Wan flickered a brief glance into his eyes and then looked back down to Anakin’s leaking and gutted arm between them. “You need to come to a decision then. Either let me continue or I cut the wire.”

“ _Master_ ,” he whined plaintively, “this is mortifying.”

“What will help you then?” He asked, squeezing wires even as Anakin dug white crescent moons into his hand.

“Mhhh—” he managed, “you getting your fingers out of me.”

Some odd expression rippled across his master’s face at that and his fingers stilled amidst the tangled mess of durasteel and gold. They blinked at one another, Anakin heavy lidded and with swimming heat behind his eyes and Obi-Wan with some still and oddly placid cast to his features. The space between them had disappeared during the chaos of yanking and wrangling busted wires and Anakin realized, as his chest rose and fell unsteady, that he could feel Obi-Wan’s breath against his mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” he breathed, “but I won’t be able to stand the way you’ll look at me if I beg.”

Obi-Wan made an aggrieved noise and twisted his hand and the wires so sharply it wrenched a broken keen from the back of Anakin’s throat and his cock jolted against his pant seam with a dangerous and heavy spurt of precome.

“And if I wanted you to beg? What then?”

Anakin’s flesh hand found its way to Obi-Wan’s shoulder, searching for his warmth and the solid feel of muscle beneath his fingers. He gasped and let his head drop to press his forehead against Obi-Wan’s cheek as his master worked his fingers through the slippery mess of wires to pull and wiggle against the fused and melted port.

“Master I— _fuck_!”

Obi-Wan huffed and his warm breath washed down Anakin’s heated face. Beyond the sounds of their panting and the thundering of his pulse in his ears, his master’s fingers made slick noises where he ground his fingers against metal.”

“I’m—” he stuttered, as the ache in his gut turned over with a roil of _too much—not enough_ and Obi-Wan, seeming to sense it, reached down with his other hand and squeezed the bulge of his cock through his pants.

“ _Master_ —”

Obi-Wan muttered against Anakin’s cheek as he tugged at wires and squeezed the hard line of him, rubbing the soaked press of his pants against his skin. “Can you come from this?

He whimpered and curled his toes up so tight against leather that his feet ached, promising to cramp from the strain. Obi-Wan didn’t wait for an answer, he moved the press of his palm against his leaking cock and lifted the mechno arm, still with his opposite hand twisted in the wires and scraping against the servos.

“What are you— _Oh!”_

Obi-Wan sucked gold tipped fingers between his lips. He felt the scorching heat of the inside of his mouth, the ever so slight roughness of his tongue’s texture as it lapped against the perfect smoothness of his gold-plated fingers. Through some broken sound escaping him he felt the agony of his master’s mouth sucking against his fingers while he threaded fingers through dripping wires and _pulled._ Anakin’s legs locked and he jolted through the ecstasy of an orgasm that felt wrenched from deep in his spine.

In the span of a second, so quickly he still shuddered through the aftershocks, Obi-Wan let his fingers fall from his mouth and snagged the back of his neck to pull their mouths together. He made a muffled noise of surprise and then went boneless against the slide of Obi-Wan’s lips.

Before he could think better of it, as he caught Obi-Wan’s bottom lip between his teeth, he wormed his flesh hand down between his master’s legs and nearly moaned again at the hard press he found.

“You’re—?”

Ob-Wan groaned in exasperation and Anakin scrambled to work his hand under his waistband and get his fingers wrapped around heated flesh.

“Of course I am you ridiculous—” Obi-Wan cut off with a deep intake of breath and he pulled Anakin’s mouth back to his.

“You’re leaking too,” Anakin murmured dazedly into the heat of his open lips.

He pumped his fist around Obi-Wan and his master shuddered a deep breath against his tongue and dug fingers against the naked line of his arm’s servos.

The shaky lance of overstimulation made him jerk and whine out a, _“—master!”_

Obi-Wan’s face scrunched and he came into Anakin’s fist with an unsteady and wavering sigh. Anakin wanted to moan and wriggle all over again at the feel of warm come spilling over his knuckles and they stayed there for a moment, both panting and trying to reel themselves back in.

“We still need to disconnect the fucking wire, master.”

Obi-Wan grinned.


End file.
